


Dereliction of Duty

by Willa Shakespeare (AnonEhouse)



Category: Blake's 7
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-13
Updated: 2013-05-13
Packaged: 2017-12-11 18:47:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,932
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/801975
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnonEhouse/pseuds/Willa%20Shakespeare
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How did Tarrant, a Federation deserter, wind up on board Liberator after the battle of Star One, along with a Federation Death Squad?</p><p>Well, this is one way it could have happened.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dereliction of Duty

(If you are reading this on any PAY site this is a STOLEN WORK, the author has NOT Given Permission for it to be here. If you're paying to read it, you're being cheated too because you can read it on Archiveofourown for FREE.)

Tarrant clung to the thin metal edges of his cot, fighting the increasing vibration which threatened to fling him against the bulkhead. "I could pilot this tub better with both hands tied behind my back," he muttered. The whole ship jerked so savagely he was temporarily airborne until he was able to hook one bare foot around a support. "Blast it!" Here he was stuck in this blind box of a cell, while all hell broke loose. 

His teeth clicked together with painful force as acceleration exceeded the artificial gravity compensation. He barely noticed the pain amid his frustration. 

There was a grating, ear-splitting screech of metal on metal as the cell door ground slowly open. The frame must have warped from the battering they'd been taking. He scrambled to his feet, wishing for a weapon, any sort of weapon. Whoever they were fighting, this ship was obviously losing, and someone might just have decided to kill the prisoner before they surrendered. He tensed, ready to sell his life as dearly as possible.

"Del? It's me, Ven Jarvik." A familiar voice came through the gap in the doorway.

"Jarvik?" Tarrant was surprised. Jarvik was the closest thing to a friend he'd ever had in the service, and he'd given Tarrant what small favors were allowed a prisoner. If Jarvik hadn't been the commander of the ship detailed to ferry him back to Earth for sentencing, Tarrant would probably already be dead. Deserters tended toward a high accident rate. Jarvik was the last person Tarrant would have thought to be his executioner. Then again, maybe Jarvik felt he had to prove his loyalty. A lot of officers had been pressured into doing worse than giving their best friend a clean death. What they'd made Tarrant do... no, he wouldn't think about that now. "Come to do it yourself? Well, I won't make it easy for you."

"I'm not here to kill you, man." Jarvik forced the door halfway open and tossed in the last thing Tarrant expected- a clean Federation Captain's uniform, including boots. "Put this on and hurry."

"What's going on?" Tarrant asked while ripping off his prisoner's jumpsuit. Whatever else Jarvik was, he wasn't a liar. Was he helping Tarrant escape? 

"War. We're in the middle of a war! My pilot's been injured, and we're about to get blown to eternity. I need you to fly us."

"And what do I get out of it, a pardon?" His mind was racing. This might be his chance. He'd been pretty pessimistic about life lately, and being turned in to the Federation by his latest customers hadn't exactly been a high point in his career. He'd didn't wait for the answer to climb into the uniform, yanking straps and buckles to with instinctive precision. Despite everything, the uniform felt like a second skin to him. 

Jarvik laughed. "You know better. No, you're for the chop even if you do the impossible and save us."

"Then why should I bother?"

Jarvik grinned. "Because you'd rather die fighting." He turned his back, and strode out of the cell, leaving the door open. "You know your way to the flight deck." And he left.

Tarrant hesitated. Yes, he knew his way to the flight deck. He also knew his way to the life-support capsules. What did he owe these bastards anyway? They'd ruined his life, taken his idealism, chased him down like a rabid dog, and condemned him without a trial. He sighed, finding his feet already heading toward the flight deck.He'd been too well-trained not to listen to the call of duty. The ship smelled of smoke, and malfunction alarms were blasting everywhere.

Tarrant strode onto to the flight deck, aware subliminally of the startled glances given him by harried crew, fighting an electrical fire amid twisted computer consoles. His attention was riveted on the main view screen. "Oh, no," he whispered. The ships outnumbered the stars. "What are they?" He'd never seen anything like them. 

"Aliens," Jarvik said briskly. He straightened up beside the barely breathing body of a young officer. He nodded toward the pilot's console, where another white-faced young man was gamely trying to maneuver the ship, despite one arm that hung limp, bleeding steadily onto the deck. The vibrational stress had sheared improperly secured panels, and made a fine mess of everything. It was a wonder the ship was still responding to the controls.

Tarrant slid smoothly into place beside the ship's pilot, and said, "Captain Del Tarrant. I relieve you of duty, pilot." He took the controls as the man mumbled his acknowledgment, and crumpled to the deck. Jarvik pulled the body to one side. He felt for a pulse, then frowned. "Good man," was all he said, as he returned to the command position. 

"Well," Tarrant said, while avoiding one barrage. "We're about done for. Do I take it we try to retreat?" he asked doubtfully. There wasn't a clear demarcation between the two forces, and he wasn't even sure which way they'd come.

"No!" Jarvik barked. "We fight! We'll show these aliens what men can do!"

Tarrant raised his eyebrows, and found himself grinning the same hunting wolf's grin that Jarvik wore. "Why not?" he said, aiming the pursuit ship at the nearest alien vessel.

***

It wasn't very long before the pursuit ship stopped responding. They had accounted for several more aliens, but the last one had managed to blow off a fair-size chunk of the stern, taking the engines with them. "No!" Tarrant yelled, smacking his hands against the controls in frustration.

"Time to go." Jarvik hit the 'abandon-ship' klaxon. He looked around the flight deck, stooping to check on the bodies. "Get out!" he yelled when several officers turned to help. "That's an order!"

In seconds, Tarrant and Jarvik were alone. "What now?" Tarrant asked. 

Jarvik took out his sidearm.

Tarrant tensed, and threw his shoulders back, standing as tall and proud as he could. 

"It's my duty, Tarrant." Jarvik held the gun for a long moment, then shook his head. He let the gun fall. "What does it matter, now? Go."

Tarrant started for the nearest life-support capsule station, then paused. "What will you do?"

"Never fear. Ven Jarvik is a survivor. As you are, Del. I'll not go down with the ship."

"It is traditonal," Tarrant said, smiling.

"Humph. Stupid tradition." Jarvik turned, solemnly saluted the corpses, and said, "Farewell, lads. You died like men." He shook his head again. "Now we'd better run if we don't want to join them."

Tarrant decided that the Federation had cut corners on the life-capsules as well as everything else. There was no reason the things couldn't be made to fit a man of his stature. Did they think the fleet was crewed by midgets? He grumbled, and wriggled his rapidly numbing legs once more. At least his arm length made reaching the controls easier. Not that the controls were worth a damn.

There was one piece of luck. The aliens were so busy fighting that they didn't bother harassing dead or dying ships or life-capsules. He stared out the small viewport, fascinated. There was an eerie beauty about the explosions. Silent, silver flowers of flame, expanding into glittering clouds as the escaped atmosphere froze and the ice crystals reflected weapons-fire. If you didn't look close enough to see the bodies, you could think it all some elaborate amusement. He steered as best he could away from a three-way fight between two Federation pursuit ships and one of the larger alien vessels- possibly their equivalent of a dreadnought. Passing through an exceptionally heavy cloud of particles, he was startled to see an enormous ship looming dead ahead. 

A really enormous ship. An absolutely gorgeous, really enormous ship, like nothing the Federation ever created, and certainly not like the ungainly abortions in the alien's fleet. For a long moment, he simply stared and admired, then his mind started working again. "The _Liberator_ ," he whispered, awed. "It is." He'd lusted after that ship ever since the first mention of Blake's fabulous terrorist vessel. The power, the speed, the sheer beauty of the thing, captured his heart in a way no woman ever had. 

_Liberator_ was drifting, apparently disabled and derelict. He aimed his life-capsule for the likeliest spot to harbor a docking port. He was taking a big chance. The ship might not have a breathable atmosphere, or the crew might still be aboard. He didn't care. Even if it meant he was going to die the instant he set foot aboard, he couldn't resist. 

He cringed inwardly as the capsule nearly collided with the side of the port. He shut the thrust down, and waited as momentum carried him onward. It was going to be close. He was rolling slightly in relation to Liberator . He waited until the roll had him facing the port and then applied a fractional second's burst of power before shutting the engines entirely.

Abruptly he was flung forward, cracking his skull against the acceleration padding with sufficient force to make his ears ring. "Smooth, Del," he commented, pulling himself back into position to check the readouts. Which were all dead, once the engine was shut down, and wouldn't have told him much anyway. He took a deep breath. Now for the gamble. Was he lined up with the port? Would _Liberator_ recognize a Federation life-capsule and abide by the universal emergency protocols? If not, he was going to have to make that one breath last a lifetime.

He undogged the capsule's single airlock and pushed. For an instant there was resistance, and then it gave way. He fell forward into blessedly pure air and wonderfully spacious room. No, actually, the air was foul with smoke and fumes from burning plastics, and he was in the inner chamber of an airlock which was large as airlocks went, but hardly the promenade deck of a luxury star-liner. Still, he was unutterably grateful to be breathing in the unpleasant air, and staring around the gloom of an emergency-lit airlock. He strode to the controls, and deduced which button closed the outer lock by the simple process of guesswork. There were only two, so he had a fifty-fifty chance. Plus, if this ship had been designed by anyone with half an ounce of sense, the outer lock had to be sealed before the inner would open. 

He must have guessed right. The outer lock shut, slowly. The lights dimmed further. Apparently, power was severely limited. He pressed the other button and waited. Even more slowly than the outer airlock, the inner lock opened. Tarrant took one step forward into the ship. He was grabbed and flung face-first against a bulkhead, barely getting his arms up in time to protect his face.

"Halt!" a voice shouted, and he was released.

Tarrant turned slowly, too exhausted emotionally for his features to reflect his dismay. Four heavily armed Federation troopers and their squinty-eyed Section Leader were facing him. It would be suicide to pull the sidearm he'd taken off a corpse in the pursuit ship. He felt a sudden rush of anger at the warped sense of humor that fate must have to put the _Liberator_ within his grasp only to kill him before he ever saw its flight deck. He glared at the men. "Well, Section Leader?" he demanded, goading the man into granting him a quick death. 

The balding man snapped a salute and said, "Section Leader Klegg. Of the 451st, Special Division Squad. Sorry, sir," he added, eyes hard and no real remorse in his voice. "We had no way of knowing it would be an officer. We were expecting one of Blake's people. We've searched and not found any of them."

Tarrant swallowed. He'd forgotten the uniform. "Captain Del Tarrant," he said, emphasizing his superior rank. He'd considered using an alias, but was afraid he'd forget to respond to it. Besides, he wasn't a famous outlaw. Not yet, anyway. "I'm sorry to have interrupted your looting," Tarrant said. "But now that I'm here, things will be done according to regulations." Grab the bull by the horns lest you be gored. His memory jogged, and he recalled what was so special about the 451st, Special Division Squad. They were one of the 'Death Squads'. Where they walked, blood flowed. They'd love having a deserter to shred.

The Section Leader's eyes blazed with resentment for an instant. "Sir," he protested, "My men and I have claimed this ship as salvage. We found it derelict. By all the laws of ..."

"Yes, yes, you'll have your credits," Tarrant said, with all the superior attitude of a high Alpha who never had to scrape for a living. "More than you'll know what to do with, I warrant. I am only concerned that this vessel not be lost to the Empire, Section Leader." He raised his tone slightly. "You are certain the crew are gone?" 

The Section Leader relaxed slightly. "There's no one aboard, sir. I expect they had to abandon ship. Life-support was barely functional when we arrived. We had to use emergency respirators."

Tarrant looked around. The dim lights were strengthening and the air seemed fresher. "Well, you've done a good job of repairs, then."

Klegg shrugged. "No, we didn't. The ship's been fixing itself." 

"Fixing itself?" Tarrant blinked. "Now, that's a pretty trick."

"Yes, sir," Klegg replied, stolidly.

"All right, take me to the flight deck," Tarrant ordered, "I'd like to check the controls and see what's working."

***

Tarrant kept his smile to himself. Klegg wouldn't have appreciated it, and besides, the situation was far from ideal. He had five sadistic psychopaths between him and clear title to the ship of his dreams. Well, Blake might argue the point, but Blake wasn't here, was he? Besides, from the tales he'd heard, Blake wound up with the ship in much the same manner. Idly, Tarrant wondered if the ship was blessed, or cursed, to survive losing two crews. 

The flight deck was larger than he'd seen on any ship, but had a surprisingly small number of crew stations considering the size of the vessel. Weaponry, communications, navigation, and some others that were less obvious. One in particular piqued his curiosity. Why should one console be separated from all the others, within reach of the most unmilitary, U-shaped, lounge set before the other stations? 

Klegg and his men watched, silent and stiffly formal, as Tarrant took inventory. The communications panel appeared operational. He looked at Klegg. "Naturally you've reported your find to headquarters." He needed to know how long he had before reinforcements arrived. In the aftermath of an intergalactic war, salvage and rescue was likely to be delayed, but he had a strong suspicion that _Liberator_ would get priority.

"Couldn't, sir," Klegg admitted, reluctantly.

"Why not?"

"Our ship was badly damaged. Communications were one of the first things to go."

"Well, why didn't you use this? It's not that complicated."

Klegg flushed. "Try it for yourself, sir," he said, with barely veiled hostility.

Not an altogether bad idea. He could pretend to transmit. That should delay Klegg making the attempt himself. Perhaps the man was a technophobe and a self-repairing ship made him uneasy. Doubtless, he was afraid to touch anything. Well, Tarrant wasn't afraid of any ship ever built. He touched the receive button. Nothing happened. The button refused to depress. He tried several others, at random. They were all stuck. "Still malfunctioning."

Frowning, Tarrant moved to the navigation console. This was more his field. He touched a button. Again, nothing happened. He tried several more. One moved under his finger, and the engines powered up. He grinned, but swiftly discovered the buttons were moving under someone else's control. "Damn," he muttered. "It's stuck on automatics. Maybe if I took the console apart..."

"I wouldn't recommend that, sir," Klegg said. "I used to have five men. Wulf tried to dismantle the com panel. It blew up in his face."

"So you just intend to sit here and do nothing? That's not very enterprising of you, is it?"

"I do have a plan, sir."

"Well?" Tarrant asked, eyebrows raised.

"It's very simple. All we have to do is keep blasting the engine controls every time they start to activate. If we can just keep the ship here long enough, someone will find us."

"That's a little too simple, Section Leader. If you can't dismantle a panel, what do you think would happen when you blasted one to bits?" Tarrant shook his head. "And what if the aliens are the first ones to come? Or rebel forces? From what I saw, there isn't enough of our fleet left to attack a space tug. If you want to keep this ship, we'll have to fly it back ourselves."

Abruptly, lights flickered over the large, hexagonal panel set on the far wall. "What's that?" He'd taken it for a decoration at first, but something in the pattern of lights seemed to indicate purpose. The lights flickered faster, and a series of clicks and assorted hums came from several of the consoles. The navigation and communications consoles came alive with lights and moving switches and buttons. "The ship's master computer," he said, answering his own question. He moved closer to the hexagon. "This is what we're fighting."

Klegg swung his gun up, aiming it at the hexagon. "One shot ought to do it, then."

"No!" Tarrant shouted, knocking the muzzle of the gun down. "That computer controls everything, including the repairs and the life-support. We'd be dead in minutes if anything happened to it."

Klegg stiffened, resenting Tarrant's interference. "As you say, sir. What are your orders, sir?"

"Take your men and search the ship."

"We have already completed a class-one search."

"Yes, but this time look for personal papers, notes, computer pads, or any self-contained data retrieval systems. Blake had to learn how to operate this ship. His people must have made some sort of record of what they learned."

"But, sir, that kind of search could take days. This is a very large ship," Klegg protested.

"And it's not getting any smaller. Do it," Tarrant snapped, and turned back to studying the navigation console, dismissing Klegg's objections.

"Yes, sir," Klegg snapped, and gestured to his men. "The officer has given a command," he told them as if they hadn't been standing there, watching the whole thing.

Tarrant waited until they were all gone, then stretched, easing the tension out of his back. At least he'd gotten Klegg off his back for a few hours, and who knows, they might actually find something useful. He decided to do some exploring on his own. He picked an adit at random and left the flight deck. The corridors were unmarked and all very similar, so he headed straight, merely noting the numbers of cross-connecting corridors. What a maze. The corridor soon widened into a chamber with another set of instrument consoles and another comfortable lounge set behind it. He studied the panels in growing excitement. While he'd never seen it, he was sure this was the fabled teleport system. There was an elaborate coordinate setting table, and a whole rack of bracelets set in a box just before a heavy black line on the deck. It made sense. You'd use the bracelets so the main system could get a fix on you, and the line must indicate where the teleport beams or field or whatever it was, formed.

This is where the crew would come back. Not at the airlock, or any of the huge, ship-docking holds. Hopefully, Klegg and his goons wouldn't have figured it out. Whoever got their hands on one of the original crew first would be in a position to control the ship. It might take a bit of persuasion, but Klegg's type was very good at that. And Tarrant wouldn't be able to stop it, not and keep up his facade of loyal Federation officer. 

Likely the ship's computer was able to take verbal commands and carry out all the finicky bits of maintaining a course. If it wasn't, then Blake's small group would never have been able to run the ship and carry out raids simultaneously. The computer was the lock, and any of Blake's crew would probably serve as the key. He wished the propaganda on _Liberator's_ crew had been more informative. The only one he'd recognize was Blake himself, and that from the several years' old memory of Blake's vid-casted recantation. He only remembered _that_ because his mates had made fun of Tarrant's superficial resemblance to the man. 

He went over the list. There were two women: Jenna Stannis- pilot, and an alien, Cally of Auron- a telepathic guerrilla, and three men: Kerr Avon- computer expert and embezzler, Vila Restal- a common Delta thief, and Blake himself. There had been another man, but his name had recently been dropped from the wanted list. The Administration hadn't made too much of it, so Olag Gan was likely dead, rather than captured. They did love their show-trials. 

He had to hope at least one of them survived the battle and made it back to the ship. He'd have to look sharp and take advantage of the situation as it arose. 

The search did uncover a considerable stack of data cubes in the personal quarters. Unfortunately, they were all encoded. He should have expected it. If Blake's people, with the entire Federation on their tails, weren't paranoid, they'd have to be idiots.

***

Much later,Tarrant was making yet another swing by the teleport section when he heard the unfamiliar voices of a man and a woman. From the way the ship had been acting, he knew it had been responding to messages from the crew. That pause within the orbit of a totally uninteresting planet called Sarran had to have been for a pick-up. 

He came around the bend in the corridor quietly. He saw them first. The girl was quite beautiful, but she seemed too young to be either a pilot or a trained alien guerilla. The man, on the other hand- well, there was too much arrogance in that stance for a Delta, so scratch Vila Restal. He'd bet anything that he was looking at the infamous Kerr Avon, the one who'd been caught with his hand in the cookie jar. Let's just shake them up a bit. "The penalty for unauthorized boarding of a Federation vessel is immediate execution. What are you doing on my ship?" The reaction was perfect. The young woman stared, and the older man accompanying her said, "Your ship?"

***

Klegg arrived just as Tarrant was beginning to enjoy himself. Avon was self-possessed, and crafty, Dayna was cool and lovely. Now, if he just proved himself to be ruthless and clever, they'd have to accept him. For a fleeting moment, he almost felt sorry for Klegg. Almost.

Everyone had underestimated Tarrant. His parents, his brother, his instructors at the Academy, most of his commanders (he excepted Jarvik) and finally, the Death Squad. He was still an optimist, though. He was sure he and Avon would have a good working relationship. 

After all, they had so much in common. Similar tastes in ships and women for a start. Yes, this was bound to be the start of a beautiful friendship.


End file.
